Read Online Going Organic Can Kill You by Staci McLaughlin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Staci McLaughlin
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parked in the only vacant slot and pulled open the door to the coffee shop, a wave of conversation hitting me as I stepped inside. Half a dozen people waited for their turn at the register, hemmed in by display stands touting vinegars and jams from nearby farms, several jars acting as bookends to hold up poetry anthologies and novels by local authors.
In San Jose when I ventured out of my cubicle for a coffee break, lone java drinkers occupied half the café tables, hunched over their laptops, updating their Facebook status. But here, at least two people occupied every table, chatting over their morning coffee.
I took my place in line behind a man in jogging shorts and a tank top. To my left, the mayor sat at the counter that lined the plate-glass window. I thought about congratulating him on his kittens, but he was talking with the man sitting next to him. In the tiny coffee shop, I had no trouble hearing their conversation.
“And now someone’s been killed,” the man I didn’t know was saying. “I knew that spa was a stupid idea. Bringing in those crazy Hollywood types with their liberal agendas.”
The mayor put a hand on his shoulder. “Now, Jim, anything that brings folks into town is a godsend. You know we don’t have enough residents to keep some of these businesses afloat. The downtown’s starting to look like a ghost town. We need the revenue.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for that organic nonsense. You know those vegetables are dirty. You gotta use pesticides to make the food safe. Won’t catch me eating that hippie food.”
The mayor drained his coffee cup and glanced at his watch. “I need to prep for my TV conference. A few of the Bay Area news stations, and even Entertainment Tonight , have sent crews to Blossom Valley, thanks to this murder. Great opportunity to plug our little town.” He slid off the bar stool, took a moment to shake hands with a couple of guys in suits at a nearby table, then made his way to the door.
Tiffany would be thrilled to hear that the press had arrived. Of course, she probably knew by now and was dressed and ready for her close-up. I ordered my mocha, then watched the crowd while I waited. I spotted my old dentist and his wife in the back corner and felt a flash of guilt that I hadn’t gotten my teeth cleaned since I’d lost my dental insurance.
In the corner, Mrs. Harris, my freshman English teacher, nursed a cup of tea while an older gentleman sat in the other chair, reading a newspaper. The year after I graduated high school, a group of students had disassembled her old VW Bug and reassembled it on the science building roof, prompting her early retirement. Good to see she was still around.
The barista called my name, the tattoo of a mermaid on his cheek moving as he spoke. I’d noticed since my return that anyone considered renegade in Blossom Valley worked at either the coffee shop or the pot dispensary. I grabbed the cup he offered and hightailed it out of the building before my dentist could question my flossing habits or Mrs. Harris asked me to diagram a sentence.
With no commuter traffic on the highway, I arrived at the farm in minutes. Turning into the lane, I took a swig of coffee, then looked at the road ahead and almost dropped my cup. The parking lot was full of vans, giant satellite dishes propped up on their roofs. People with mics and cameras milled around in front of the main house, chatting amongst themselves.
As one, they turned toward my little Honda Civic, squinting against the morning sun and trying to see through the windshield. I felt like a panda at the zoo. Where was a thick clump of bamboo to hide behind when you needed one? No way did I want to talk to these people.
I pulled into the spot closest to the side path, then bolted out of my car, leaving my half-drunk coffee behind.
“Do you work here?” a chesty blonde with a microphone hollered while a cameraman trailed behind her.
“Did you know Maxwell
In San Jose when I ventured out of my cubicle for a coffee break, lone java drinkers occupied half the café tables, hunched over their laptops, updating their Facebook status. But here, at least two people occupied every table, chatting over their morning coffee.
I took my place in line behind a man in jogging shorts and a tank top. To my left, the mayor sat at the counter that lined the plate-glass window. I thought about congratulating him on his kittens, but he was talking with the man sitting next to him. In the tiny coffee shop, I had no trouble hearing their conversation.
“And now someone’s been killed,” the man I didn’t know was saying. “I knew that spa was a stupid idea. Bringing in those crazy Hollywood types with their liberal agendas.”
The mayor put a hand on his shoulder. “Now, Jim, anything that brings folks into town is a godsend. You know we don’t have enough residents to keep some of these businesses afloat. The downtown’s starting to look like a ghost town. We need the revenue.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for that organic nonsense. You know those vegetables are dirty. You gotta use pesticides to make the food safe. Won’t catch me eating that hippie food.”
The mayor drained his coffee cup and glanced at his watch. “I need to prep for my TV conference. A few of the Bay Area news stations, and even Entertainment Tonight , have sent crews to Blossom Valley, thanks to this murder. Great opportunity to plug our little town.” He slid off the bar stool, took a moment to shake hands with a couple of guys in suits at a nearby table, then made his way to the door.
Tiffany would be thrilled to hear that the press had arrived. Of course, she probably knew by now and was dressed and ready for her close-up. I ordered my mocha, then watched the crowd while I waited. I spotted my old dentist and his wife in the back corner and felt a flash of guilt that I hadn’t gotten my teeth cleaned since I’d lost my dental insurance.
In the corner, Mrs. Harris, my freshman English teacher, nursed a cup of tea while an older gentleman sat in the other chair, reading a newspaper. The year after I graduated high school, a group of students had disassembled her old VW Bug and reassembled it on the science building roof, prompting her early retirement. Good to see she was still around.
The barista called my name, the tattoo of a mermaid on his cheek moving as he spoke. I’d noticed since my return that anyone considered renegade in Blossom Valley worked at either the coffee shop or the pot dispensary. I grabbed the cup he offered and hightailed it out of the building before my dentist could question my flossing habits or Mrs. Harris asked me to diagram a sentence.
With no commuter traffic on the highway, I arrived at the farm in minutes. Turning into the lane, I took a swig of coffee, then looked at the road ahead and almost dropped my cup. The parking lot was full of vans, giant satellite dishes propped up on their roofs. People with mics and cameras milled around in front of the main house, chatting amongst themselves.
As one, they turned toward my little Honda Civic, squinting against the morning sun and trying to see through the windshield. I felt like a panda at the zoo. Where was a thick clump of bamboo to hide behind when you needed one? No way did I want to talk to these people.
I pulled into the spot closest to the side path, then bolted out of my car, leaving my half-drunk coffee behind.
“Do you work here?” a chesty blonde with a microphone hollered while a cameraman trailed behind her.
“Did you know Maxwell
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